Whoever shadowed Teri had parked here, walked back to her car and then followed her down the path. But before reaching the beach, the stalker must have heard voices so he turned and made his way in the darkness to the rocks where he hid, spying on the girl and Pitt. After it became light from the dawn, the intruder returned to the road, using the rocks to conceal his movements.

It was an elementary puzzle, and it fit neatly together, except for the fact that three pieces were missing. Why had Teri been followed and by whom? A thought occurred to Pitt and he smiled to himself. The simple answer was very likely a local Peeping Tom. If that were the case the observer got more than he bargained for.

A knot formed in Pitt's stomach. It was the third missing piece that bothered him the most. Something in his logical mind would not jell. He looked over at the tire tracks again. They were too large for an ordinary car. They could only come from a more massive vehicle, say, a truck. His eyes narrowed, and his brain began to churn. He wouldn't have heard Teri drive up because he was asleep. And the truck had probably coasted to a stop, noiselessly.

Pitt's intent gaze turned from the diamond tread tire tracks to the beach. The tide was creeping over the sand and erasing all signs of recent human activity. He gauged the distance from the road to the beach and began to term the problem in the manner of a fifth grade schoolteacher.

If a truck is at point A, and two people are on the beach 250 feet away at point B, why wouldn't the two people on the beach hear the truck start its engine in the silence of early morning?

The answer eluded him, so Pitt shrugged and gave up. He shook out the towel and, wrapping it around his neck, walked back along the deserted road toward the main gate, whistling, "It's a Long Road to Tipperary."

3

3

The young blond crewman cast off the lines, and the little twenty-six-foot double-ended whaleboat surged sluggishly away from the makeshift dock near Brady Field, setting a course over the blue carpet of water toward the First Attempt. The throbbing four-cylinder Buda engine pushed the sturdy boat along at eight knots and cast the familiar nautical stink of diesel fumes over the deck. It was a few minutes to nine now, and the sun was hotter and even a slight breeze from the sea offered no relief.